


Setting Stages

by dvske



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Duet, F/M, Nonsense, Songwriting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4670294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dvske/pseuds/dvske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The song won't work, but they sing it all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Setting Stages

They argue semantics over flatbread, Sea Monster fresh from Junction Jan’s growing colder with each moment they spend tossing heated words across the table.

Lyrics. Meaning. Tone. Each one, parsed out amidst an array of paper plates laden with crusts and crumbs; a mess of half-empty cups of lemonade; various sheets drowned in scribbled words, ink stains. Everywhere, fragments of a work in progress that clutter the surface, litter the floor. Stanzas scratched out, folded, crumpled as the minutes tick by. Minutes, stretching well into the evening hours—midnight, soon. Frustration bleeds into their exhaustion. Minutes, unraveling, and they’re still trying to piece together all these fragments. Pushing and pulling at fleeting connotations. Patience, running thin.

The song refuses to work.

Something about the melody being off, she says. It don’t sit right. Don’t fit right.

And no, no, the melody’s just fine. He’s certain. He assures. It’s fine. Hadn’t she said as much during their last run through?

_That was then. This is now. We got lyrics now, and they don’t fit._

_Don’t they?_

_I just wanna change it._

Rinse. Repeat.

Running, in circles, and not nearly enough food and drink left to keep them sitting still for much longer. Not nearly enough rest.

Her show’s in three days.

He has half the mind to call for a break, to call it a night so they can start fresh tomorrow, but it’s the melody dig that gets him. Strikes a nerve. He’s spent so _long_ on that melody. Every free moment, just him picking out the chords on the guitar now resting by his side. Hours, playing with the tune and jotting down each note with her voice in mind. A dulled sound, at the start, but gaining clarity as it filled him, spurred him on. Her singing, rich and soulful, keeping time with the beat. Slow. Steady. Words, yet to come. But the melody, solid.

And she doesn’t like it.

_It just don’t sound right._

How couldn’t it, with a voice like hers? Her voice, one that can smooth out the roughest edges. One that can, in an instant, open up a world of promise and rattle it to its core. A voice that can make anything, everything, shine. She spins magic with that voice, lyrics or no, and here they are picking a fight cause _it_ _don’t sound right._

It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. They’re both just tired. Just damned tired. Yet it stings, because he wrote the score to suit her voice and hers alone.

Only one that’d do it justice. Only one that’d get it right.

_Well, why_ don’t _it work, Red?_

_It’s just…_

She’s slumped now, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed over her stomach and her lips locked in a pout. Her bathrobe, a deep gold, seems to bristle as she burrows into it. Blue eyes study the scrap of notebook paper in front of her, a thin wisp of a sheet marked up with both of their handwriting. She focuses on the chorus, the only bit of the song they’ve cemented and agreed on so far, and lets out a breath.

_It’s too somber._

He waits, lets the comment sit. When she doesn’t elaborate: _Too somber?_

_For a love song, yeah._

Ah. Well.

He leans back in his own chair, folding his hands together and stretching his legs out beneath the table.

_The lyrics don’t seem much happier, Red._

And it’s a touch too honest, a touch too blunt despite the careful way he says it, because her frown deepens. She starts tracing her finger over the chorus, starts smoothing out the wrinkles in the paper with a quiet irritation settling on her features.

_Love’s supposed to be, ain’t it?_

_Love’s a lot of things._

And then...a pause. Nothing. She says nothing in response.

Instead the silence sits heavy between them, tension winding down as their tempers start to simmer, start to cool. It's their damned, fragile pride that makes the compromise and cooperation hard. They know this, and still.

Red won't meet his eye, simply fiddles with the pencil tucked behind her ear. It's half tangled in her hair, and she plucks it out slowly before she starts doodling lazy circles on the chorus sheet. Spirals and swirls trailing around the edges. Something to do as she thinks. At least, he _thinks_ she's thinking, but it’s just distraction to keep further argument at bay.

Midnight, now, and the song still won’t work.

They stay like this, resigned and ignoring each other, until he’s had enough. Enough, for now, because they’re getting nowhere.

He reaches for his guitar, settles into a more comfortable position before he starts strumming out the melody that's caused so much grief. Hesitant, at first, until he pushes all thoughts of unfinished drafts and rehearsals out of his mind. Quiet, until he glances up and catches Red's gaze, catches the way she's tapping out a complementary beat with her pencil. In spite of herself, he knows. He plays louder, a small smile tugging at his lips.

_Sing, Red._

_I...can't. Can't think of anything._

_Don't think. Just—_

Then he's humming as he plays, wordless verses that stir something in the air around them. His voice, with that deep and rumbling quality, makes her soften. She sighs and then she's humming too. She hums until humming gives way to a mix of _la's_ and _da's_ she can no longer suppress, a mix of random words and phrases she makes up on the fly to match the tempo he’s set. Her eyes, sparkling. Hands in motion as if she’s on stage. The song, taking shape in the most unexpected way. He joins in with equal fervor, throwing in bits of the chorus without a single care for decorum or coherency, and before they know it they’re singing absolute nonsense. Absolute nonsense, but it’s effortless. Resonant. A moment of reprieve, an impromptu duet carrying into the night.

This is no longer work, but pure play.

And for now, it’s enough.

 


End file.
